


Hamish Goes to Hogwarts

by overthemoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Parentlock, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthemoon/pseuds/overthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It’s an acceptance letter,” Sherlock said.  “Specifically, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”  Sherlock smiled at Hamish.  “You’re a wizard.  That would definitely explain the unwarranted explosion last night of the milk and biscuits when you lost your temper after staying up past your bedtime.”</i>
</p><p>When Hamish recieves his Hogwarts Letter, he leaves the chaotic world of Muggle crime behind to discover the even more chaotic world of Hogwarts in the aftermath of the Great Wizarding War.  Will he manage to survive in his new environment or will John and Sherlock demand that Hamish stay at home?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It always starts with a letter

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to prettyarbitrary for the invite! Hello, this is my first proper story to the fandom.  
> [Inspired by this gifset. ](http://ironbatwoman.tumblr.com/post/38753152739/panther-walls-au-hamish-recieves-his-letter)  
> [My Original Post On tumblr. ](http://overthemoonwriting.tumblr.com/post/43018486810/ironbatwoman-panther-walls-au-hamish)
> 
> Here seems to work as a pretty good backup and additional exposure. Thank you for reading! Any comments/kudos are sincerely appreciated. Constructive criticism would make me dance and love you for possibly forever. I'm looking to become a writer for real, and fandom is my training playground.

John Watson sighed to himself as he walked down Baker Street. It was Sunday, the kind of Sunday that he’d been hoping to spend sleeping in and doing nothing in particular. Instead, a late Saturday night experiment had left the flat with no more milk (or biscuits) and this necessitated a trip to the local Tesco for breakfast supplies.

The quiet background noises of London traffic did nothing to soothe his irritated mood, and he turn his collar up against the cold. Hopefully, by the time he was doing with the shopping Sherlock and Hamish would have cleaned up their experiments and would be properly apologetic about creating the mess in the first place.

A small envelope caught John’s eye as he paused to unlock the door. He stopped and picked up the envelope, turning it over in his hands. Strange, no sign of a return address… he thought. The envelope was addressed to “Hamish Holmes-Watson, 221b Baker Street, London, England.” He turned the envelope over, and patted it gently. No sharp or rectangular objects appeared to be inside, just a funny kind of thick paper. Hopefully it was safe.

John tucked the envelope under his arms and picked up the rest of the groceries. Up the seventeen steps (quietly, Mrs. Husdon was probably still sleeping) and into 221b. As he’d expected, Sherlock and Hamish were awake. Sherlock was already sitting at the kitchen table, and John could hear Hamish walking around in the upstairs room, getting ready for the day ahead.

“Hamish? Sherlock?” John said, getting their attention. He put the letter on the kitchen table and began to put the milk and biscuits in the fridge.

“Up here dad!” Hamish called back. How that boy of mine is such a morning bird, I will never know, John thought.

John closed the fridge door and rolled up the plastic bags for storage. “This strange letter came for Hamish,” he said, pointing at the envelope on the table. Sherlock’s eyes darted over to investigate, long slim fingers reaching for the envelope.

Sherlock remarked, “With a red wax seal?” Sherlock began to turn the envelope over in his hands, squinting at the details John knew he would never really be able to see.

“Yes… but the post doesn’t come on Sunday,” John said, settling into his chair. He frowned, wondering if perhaps another one of Sherlock’s enemies was trying to threaten them through Hamish, again.

Sherlock sat up straight and smiled smugly at John. He raised one eyebrow. “This post does.”

Hamish clatter down the stairs in a noisy whirlwind of young boy. His eyes glanced from John’s from to Sherlock’s smug expression. “What is it?” Hamish asked. John glanced over to Sherlock for an explanation.

“Old style calligraphy, formal use of address with no return address, wax seal but no glue, thickness of the envelope paper suggests envelope was suppose to have a tough time traveling, but the sender wasn’t worried about anyone opening it, so not normal means of transportation then. Addressed to Hamish, instead of us.” Sherlock waved absently to indicate himself and John. “Someone who knows about him but the formal language and method indicates someone who doesn’t know him personally, or they would have used an email. Wax seal has a crest on it, some kind of old formal institution but not one you would have recognized, John, or you wouldn’t be so puzzled.” John blinked. “It’s an acceptance letter,” Sherlock said. “Specifically, to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Sherlock smiled at Hamish. “You’re a wizard. That would definitely explain the unwarranted explosion last night of the milk and biscuits when you lost your temper after staying up past your bedtime.”

“So, what how- How do you know about this, Sherlock?” John demanded to know. “What the hell is a Wizard?”

Sherlock turned to look at John. “It’s someone who’s capable of performing magic, John. Surely that would be obvious, even to you.”

“And how do you know about wizards? You’re a consulting detective, not a magician.” John leaned his elbows on the table and glared at Sherlock. “What happened to science, and all of that?”

Sherlock passed the letter to Hamish. “Letter opener is in the left desk drawer. Try not to react like John.” Hamish took the letter with wide eyes and went over to the desk to get the small knife.

John huffed. “I’m not overreacting. It’s just another bizarre thing that comes along with living with you, you madman.” He ran his hands through his graying hair and grumbled, “You didn’t answer my question about how you know wizards.”

“It was for a case, John,” Sherlock said mildly, and reached for a newspaper. “I did a favor for one of them, proved that the death hadn’t been caused by natural causes, and they were able to do some magic to prove what kind of unnatural cause it was.” He turned one of the pages. “It’s welcome to have an explanation occasionally for things that don’t logically work out.”

“Yeah, and I supposed you would like that.” John stood up. “I’m making tea.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock said.

“But I haven’t said if I’m even making one for you.” John walked around past Sherlock to get the kettle, and Sherlock captured his hand and kissed it. John sighed. “Fine,” he said without any real complaint. John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Love you too.”


	2. Doing the Shopping Doesn't Get Any Easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Keep it!” Ollivander said. “The wand chooses the wizard, and it is not wise of you to give it up so soon after you’re united.”_
> 
> _Hamish nodded solemnly. “I’ll keep it safe,” he promised._
> 
> _“Of course you will,” said Ollivander, disappearing into the stacks of boxes. “Why on earth would you want to endanger it?”_
> 
> _John and Sherlock looked at each other._ I don’t know what’s going on, _John thought. He wanted to reach out and hold (ask) Sherlock for reassurance, but perhaps that wasn't the best idea at the moment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr Version ](http://overthemoonwriting.tumblr.com/post/43837423695/)(Potentially slight discrepancies as I've done some editing before posting it on here.
> 
> No beta, no britpick.

_Flourish and Blotts_ , declared the sign on the bookstore. _Serving the Wizarding Community since the invention of the printing press._ The store was stuffed, with parents and children spilling in and out of the doors, weaving their way around high stacks and shelves of books. John stared at the list of book titles on Hamish’s supply list. The foreign titles made something as simple as buying new books for Hamish, which he and Sherlock had done for normal school, became something unfamiliar and alien.

John took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and grabbed Hamish’s hand firmly. “Come on,” he said, following Sherlock, who was already picking his way through the milling crowd of robed people. “You’ve got your supply list with you, right?” Hamish squeezed John’s hand in affirmation. Together they entered the bookstore, pushing their way past a group of chattering redheads to find themselves in the textbook selection. Helpful sparkling signs pointed them towards a shelf under a sign in red and gold, “for first year students.”

“What’s the first book on your list, Hamish?” John asked.

Hamish began to recite from the list, reaching for the books himself. The ones Hamish couldn’t reach, John got for him.

“Okay, I think we’ve got them all,” Hamish said. He looked around the bookstore eagerly. “Dad, isn’t this place amazing?”

“Yeah, yeah, it looks great,” said John. He scans the section they’re in. “Hang on, where’s your Father?”

“Father said something about looking at other stores,” Hamish said. John frowned.  
“Really? When?”  
“When we were outside. Can we go exploring in the rest of the store please?” Hamish smiled at John. “I’m sure Father can’t get into too much trouble.”

Sherlock apparently took the opportunity to reappear by John right elbow. “John, this place is hateful. I can’t get any sort of signal and my mobile’s going haywire.” John can’t help but smile at his consulting detective’s flustered facial expression. Sherlock’s fingers keep agitatedly tapping on the keys as the phone’s screen displays a gray fuzzy static.

“You’re just mad you can’t figure out how to deduce anyone,” John replies. “Being in a wizarding world and all that.” John frowned as a thought occurred to him. He looked at Hamish, then at Sherlock. “Do they use the same kind of money?”

Sherlock shook his head and tucked the phone away. “No, but I’ve already gotten that taken care off.” He handed John a small bag of heavy coins. “I went to get the money changed at the bank down the street.” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “They have goblins in charge of the money, John! Rather creative way of protecting their currency. Apparently it’s relatively foolproof as only less than ten individuals have managed to break into their vaults in several hundred years and I wonder how they did it.” John stared at Sherlock. “John, we’ve got to go look at it sometime.” John shook his head.

“Sherlock, we are /not/ visiting magical crime scenes. And I’m sure that it’s not relevant anymore, anyway.”

“Father, can we go to the owlery?” Hamish tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Please?”

“Maybe later,” Sherlock said. “John, what’s next?”

“Um, well, we’ve got to pick up some potion ingredients and stop by the wand shop, and then we can explore a bit?”

“Excellent!” Sherlock smiled. John stared at Sherlock, feeling slightly disconcerted. “You’ve already got all the books he needs. Come on, John.”

John shook his head and made his way through the throng of robed wizards to the checkout stand. Sherlock had neglected to tell him how the currency actually worked, but John solved the problem by putting a medium sized pile of coins on the counter and telling the clerk, “Keep the change.” He had enough to deal with already.

“John, this way,” Sherlock said, pulling them towards a store with a green cauldron on the overhead sign. The consulting detective’s face wore the familiar expression of “wait until I can do experiments on it!” Hamish trotted to keep up with Sherlock’s long legs, the books threatening to tumble out of Hamish’s arms.

Sherlock looked happy to be back in a twisted version of his element. The potions store was a hodgepodge of clunky cauldrons and bubbling green things. John didn’t know what was inside the bottles and to be honest, he was a little afraid to ask. One wall was dedicated to drawers which rattled faintly or had strong stains on the wood.

“Hamish, um, do you know how to find the things on you list?” John asked faintly. Hamish laughed and squeezed John’s hand. 

“It can’t be as bad as the body parts that you used to find in the fridge, Dad,” Hamish said.  
John’s mouth corner twitched at the memory. “Well, we’ll just ask for one of the shopkeepers to help us, or something. I’m pretty sure that they’ll know what to do. We can’t be the first people to be this clueless and out of our element.”

Sherlock was haphazardly removing bottles from the shelf and looking at their labels, frowning. “John, can we take some extras home?”  
“No, Sherlock. And it really makes me feel uncomfortable that you don’t know what you’re experimenting with, so please, put it down. Let’s just get Hamish’s things and then we need to go get his wand so there aren’t any more milk and biscuit explosions. Okay?” 

Sherlock turned to look at John. “Alright,” he said quietly. He beckoned imperiously at one of the shopkeepers to come over. Even if Sherlock wasn’t in modern London, he was still as imposing as ever.

“Hello?” said the shopkeeper hesitantly. She was a small mousy person, with a rumbled shop apron. “How may I be of service?”

“Show her the list, Hamish,” Sherlock said. “That will be good enough.”

She beamed at them. “First years, huh! I can remember being a first year too!” She nodded at Hamish. “Follow me. Muggle borns, they never do know what they’re getting into.”

As she led Hamish around the shop, putting various items (John spied a jar of green pickled eyeballs) both the consulting detective and his doctor tried not to gape at the unusual inventory. John couldn’t help tapping his fingers on his leg, and Sherlock took his hand.

“John, it will be okay,” Sherlock said. His warm breath ghosted over John’s left ear. “I promise.”  
John squeezed Sherlock’s hand back and didn’t say anything. He wanted Hamish to be safe, but he couldn’t help feeling so lost again. Even Sherlock didn’t know what to do this time, and that sudden lack of knowledge felt like a surprise pothole in the road.

John focused on the shopgirl instead. Hamish was talking to her easily and laughing at her stories of the properties of the ingredients. It was comforting to know that Hamish didn’t feel nearly as lost as his parents, but John still didn’t know. John wasn’t blind, he saw the items on Hamish’s list. Dragon skin, a guide to protection against the dark arts (whatever the hell that meant). New world, new dangers. He couldn’t be there to protect his own son.

“Well, that’s everything,” said the girl. “I’ll take this up to the front register and ring it up, shall we?”

John didn’t even bother trying to figure out how the money worked this time. He simply handed the pouch to Hamish, who listened attentively to the shopgirl (who was trying not to giggle) as she explained how the money works. Something about nuts and skittles and gallons.

Sherlock deigned to help carry the purchases this time. “There’s the wandshop next, and then we can go explore to our hearts content,” John said.

John’s first impression of Ollivanders was a big small shop, thin and square in floor value, but stuffed with skyscraping shelves of flat rectangular boxes. Sherlock and Hamish crowded in behind John, their gasps of awe easily audible in the seemingly empty.

“Please ring bell for service,” said a sign on the wall. “Try not to explode anything before I get to you.”

 _Well that’s comforting to know._ John shuffled uncomfortably from side to side as Sherlock rang the bell for service. The harsh ring echoed out, then an old reedy voice called from the back of the shop, “Yes, yes, just a minute.”

A very old man hurried out from inside the stacks of boxes to greet them. “Hello and welcome to Ollivanders,” he said thinly. “How may I help you?”

“It’s, um.” John licked his lips, unsure of how to continue. 

Sherlock cut in, “Our son needs a wand? He’s going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a first year student.”

“Oh!” The old man nodded. “Muggle born then.” _(There was that word again, John thought.)_ “I’m Ollivander, owner and creator of these fine wands you see here.” He looks them earnestly in the eye and adds, “I know what I’m doing, so please don’t panic if strange things happen.”

Ollivander turned to Hamish. “I’ll need some basic information before I can figure out which wands to try out.”

Hamish smiled at Ollivander. “Ollivander? That’s a nice name. I’m Hamish.” He stuck out his right hand. Ollivander eyed it. 

“Right handed then?” Ollivander asked.

Hamish looked confused. “Ye-es?”

Ollivander stared at Hamish another moment, then nodded sharply. “Yes, I have an idea or two.” He hobbled back into the stacks of boxes, reappearing with a few in his arms. He thrusted one box at Hamish. “Try this.”

Hamish took the box and opens it. Inside was a wand. Ollivander gestured impatiently at him. “Come on, we haven’t got all day. Try it.” Hamish picked it up hesitantly and asked, “Well, what do I do?”

“Wave it around,” said Ollivander. When he saw John and Sherlock’s alarmed expressions, Ollivander added, “I’ve Charmed the shop against explosions. Shush!”

Hamish waved the wand, but nothing happened. Ollivander grunted, and handed Hamish another box. Hamish repeated the process, and a series of white sparkles appeared in the air. Ollivander huffed, then handed Hamish one more box. Waving this wand produced a cascade of boxes falling from the shelves. Ollivander nodded. “Yes, the second one will do nicely.” Hamish made as if to give the wand back to Ollivander, who glared at Hamish. “Keep it!” Ollivander said. “The wand chooses the wizard, and it is not wise of you to give it up so soon after you’re united.”

Hamish nodded solemnly. “I’ll keep it safe,” he promised.

“Of course you will,” said Ollivander, disappearing into the stacks of boxes. “Why on earth would you want to endanger it?”

John and Sherlock looked at each other. The repeated feeling of "I don’t know what’s going on" itched at John's conciousness. He wanted to reach out and hold (ask) Sherlock for reassurance, but perhaps that was not the best idea right now.

Hamish looked at both of them with a huge grin on his face as he waved the wand in the air haphazardly, leaving a trail of snowlakes. “Dad, Father, look!” John smiled at his son.

“That’s very nice, Hamish,” John said. “Very beautiful.”

“I don’t know how I’m doing it!” Hamish stopped waving and looked at Sherlock. “Do you know, Father?”

Sherlock blinked . “I-”  
“Let’s pay for the wand and go explore,” John interrupted. “I’m sure Mr. -- Mr. Ollivander-- has got lots of other customers he needs to see.” Hamish nodded and held his hand out to John for the bag of money.

“Thank you,” Hamish said to Ollivander when he came back. “Do you know what kind of wand I got?”

“11 inches, willow wood with dragon heartstring, very springy.” Ollivander nodded. “Good thing it suits you.”

“Here,” said Hamish, as he handed the bag to Ollivander. “How much is it?”

Ollivander blinked and sighed. “It was good doing business with you. Good luck in your studies.” He removed some coins from the bag. “Do remember to take care of your wand.”

Hamish clutched his wand tightly to his chest. “I promise.” John reached over and tugged on Hamish’s shoulder. “Bye, Mr. Ollivander! Have a nice day!”

John looked up at Sherlock’s face as they exited the shop. It was cold.


	3. An Inaccurate Measurement of Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hamish surged out of the crowd to circle the luggage cart again. “Dad! Isn’t this exciting?” Hamish beamed at them, grinning from ear to ear. “There’s magic right in front of my nose, but I can’t see it! Can Father see it?”_

John coughed as the train station’s smell of smoke and steam filled his lungs. “Hamish?” His son wandered through the crowd in a worrying Sherlock-like manner, lunging into and out of the mass of people every few seconds. Sherlock squeezed John’s elbow reassuringly.

“Hamish will be fine. He’s not stupid; he’ll be able to find us if he gets lost.” John nodded, continuing to push the luggage cart. The letter hasn’t said anything about how to enter the platform, but if Sherlock could deduce how to get into Diagon Alley, he could probably deduce how to make it onto Platform 9 & ¾. A tiny knot of anxiety tumbled around in his stomach that refused to vanish, but John kept his eyes on Sherlock as the detective scanned their surroundings.

Hamish surged out of the crowd to circle the luggage cart again. “Dad! Isn’t this exciting?” Hamish beamed at them, grinning from ear to ear. “There’s magic right in front of my nose, but I can’t see it! Can Father see it?”

John eyed Sherlock. Sherlock smiled at Hamish, smirking. “Sherlock?” John asked. “Any day now.”

“The barrier,” Sherlock said. Sherlock ran at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Hamish trotted after Sherlock, shorter legs leaving Hamish lagging in the shadow of “that bloody coat”. John hurried to keep up. When Sherlock collided into the barrier he would need stitches and they would be late and possibly Hamish would miss his train and - 

Sherlock vanished into the barrier.

“Bloody Wizards,” John grumbled, and chased after his husband and son.

The sensation of going through the barrier was like going through a warm curtain of water and John emerged unhurt, pushing the luggage trolley, onto Platform 9 & ¾.

"You -" John shook his head at Sherlock. "I have no idea how you figured out but that was insane! You could have been badly hurt!"

Sherlock smiled and walked over to John. "And you love it," he whispered in John's ear. “You’re my doctor; you’ll fix me.” John glared at Sherlock, who refused to acknowledge John’s stare. 

"Dad! Father! That was fun, can we do it again?" Hamish grinned at both of them. "How did you find out?" John heard the station bell tolling the hour. 

"Hamish, you'd better get on your train now or you'll miss it." Hamish nodded, the happiness falling off his face.

"You'll miss me, won't you?" Hamish’s shoulders dropped and his eyebrows knitted together in concern. His eyes darted back and forth between John’s face and Sherlock’s face, watching their facial expressions.

"Every day," John promised. "We'll write to you when we can." Sherlock nodded in agreement and patted Hamish on the shoulder.

Hamish lunged forward to hug John tight. "I love you," Hamish said. John held Hamish, unsure of what to say. "I'll see you for Christmas?"

Sherlock rubbed his hand between Hamish's shoulder blades in an attempt to be reassuring. "Yes, and if your insufferable fat uncle Mycroft has anything to say about it, we'll be seeing him too."

"Okay." Hamish giggled. 

John didn't want to let his son go. Not off into this strange new world that John didn’t know or understand. "He's just a boy," he wanted to say. "He's still so young. It was only yesterday that we were bringing him home for the first time."

The train whistled sharply and they automatically looked up. 

"I have to go now," Hamish said. John wanted to do something, anything to wipe the sad smile off of Hamish’s face, but he couldn’t. Instead, John and Sherlock nodded, and help Hamish carry his luggage onto the train. They watched as his small black head disappeared among all the other children who are leaning out the window to wave goodbye to their parents.

Sherlock came up behind John to use him as a chin rest. "Oi, get off." John sighed as Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in a poorly executed hug. John leaned back into his consulting detective's body and they both waved at the train as it began to pull out of the station. 

“Whatever happens, Hamish will get through,” Sherlock stated. “He is your son, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading or commenting.  
> The next chapters will not be from John's POV, but Hamish's POV. Hopefully you'll still like the story?  
> This crossover is heavy on the Potterverse side.
> 
> [Tumblr Version](http://overthemoonwriting.tumblr.com/post/44412839054)


	4. Only in Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hamish shrugged. “Central London, same as you?” She stared at him. “Your accent gave it away.” Mia frowned. “What?” He shifted nervously in his seat, praying that she wouldn’t give him the Piss Off remark that Father frequently got._
> 
> _“Most people I meet don’t try to say everything they know about the other person at once,” she said. “It’s a stupid party trick.”_

Once boarding the train, Hamish pushed his way through the throng of other students crowding in the hallway. The barrage of other juvenile voices exclaiming all around dizzied him, for there was no Dad-and-Father-having-an-argument filter for the white noise. He padded down two compartment cars before arriving at one that was contained one other person. Hamish smiled uncertainly at the girl already sitting in the compartment car. “Hello?” he asked. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

The girl looked up from her book and eyed him suspiciously. “Sure.”

“Great!” Hamish smiled in relief and began to load his luggage onto the rack. Even though he didn’t want to be surrounded by people, he didn’t want to be alone and untethered. “I’m Hamish, by the way.” He didn’t give his last name. Too many potential friendships at his old school had been sidetracked by children trying to chat about only his parents or attack him for being their son.

“Mia,” she said. “This your first year?”

“Yup,” said Hamish, popping the P. He plopped down on the seat opposite and tried to look at her the way Father had taught him. Black curly hair, dark skin, um. She was wearing normal clothes, definitely not new or anything recently fashionable. Second hand maybe? He’d never been good at deductions, not as good as Father, anyway.

She closed her book and looked back at him with a party-polite smile. “Nice to meet another first year, I suppose. Where are you from?”

Hamish shrugged. “Central London, same as you?” She stared at him. “Your accent gave it away.” Mia frowned. “What?” He shifted nervously in his seat, praying that she wouldn’t give him the Piss Off remark that Father frequently got.

“Most people I meet don’t try to say everything they know about the other person at once,” she said. “It’s a stupid party trick.”

“It’s just an observation,” Hamish replied. He smiled, relieved that she wasn’t angry. “Is that a good book?” He pointed as a distraction. Mia looked down at the book in her lap and shrugged. She trailed a finger over the cover of the book, tracing the ornate script and illuminated star patterns with her fingers.

“It’s okay,” she said, making a so-so gesture with her hands. She smiled back at Hamish. “It’s got a lot of interesting theories in it, but I can’t understand half of them at this point.” She shrugged again. “I’ll figure it out.” Her eyes took on a far away look, as if she’d climbed into a mental mountain cave to meditate on whatever magical theories were in the book.

Hamish beamed at her. “Well, that’s what going to school is for, right?” He giggled at his own not-very-witty remark, hoping she’d join in. Mia giggled too, the distant look evaporating.

The light above Hamish’s head in the compartment car gave a bang and exploded with a puff of cinnamon smelling smoke. They stopped giggling to stare up at the light. “You okay?” Mia asked with wide eyes. Hamish froze in fear. “There’s plastic shards in your hair...” Hamish reached up to check for blood, and felt a wave of relief when his hand came away dry.

“I’m fine, I think,” Hamish said. “I’m not bleeding anyway.” Hamish smiled, trying to take away some of the tension. Mia pursued her lips. 

“Maybe we should tell a prefect?” she asked. She shook her head and walked to the compartment door, away from the orange smoke still issuing from the light socket. The happy expression had slid from her face, and in its place was a stern frown.

Hamish brushed off the plastic pieces onto the seat next to him. “I’m fine, honest,” he said. He stood up and tried to move the pieces into a pile. It wasn’t nearly as bad as some of Father’s experiments, he would be fine. 

“I’m going to find a prefect,” Mia said. She left the compartment. Hamish swallowed nervously and tapped hand on the side of his leg. He took a careful sniff of the smoke and couldn’t identify any of the dangerous chemicals he’d memorized from Father’s tables.

He observed the rest of the room, trying to calm the nervousness bubbling up in the bottom of his stomach. “Guess I better wait until Mia comes back...” He looked at his reflection in the carriage window and forced himself to smile. “It’s okay, right?”

The smoke plume puffed, emitting a mushroom cloud of itchy cinnamon. Hamish waved his hand in front of his face and coughed. His hand brushed something soft inside the cloud and he stepped back, startled. He blew at the smoke, and waved his hands about, trying to clear the fog.

It took a few minutes of frantic arm waving and some more coughing, but Hamish managed to dissipate most of the smoke. He blinked in surprise as butterflies began to emerge from the light socket and flutter feebly for a few seconds before flopping against the other side of the compartment car. The train was simply moving too fast for the butterflies to keep up. He stared at the colorful insects beating their wings in the small compartment and backed up into the compartment doorway.

“Woah,” he breathed. The butterflies began to crawl around on the wall, forming a moving carpet of small brightly colored tiles. “How did that happen?” He shook head and rubbed his eyes.

“Hamish, are you all right?” Mia’s voice came from behind him and Hamish started in surprise. He turned around, eyes darting from Mia’s face to the prefect dressed in a yellow t-shirt. The female prefect glared at them with sharp no-nonsense eyes.

“I’m fine,” Hamish said. He fidgeted with the edge of his shirt and tried to smooth out his nervous facial expression.

The female prefect sighed. “You first years never learn, do you?” She pulled out her wand and began muttering spells. The smoke cloud withered and disappeared, while the live butterflies turned into plastic ones, tumbling into a heap on the seat. Hamish looked at his feet, trying to hide the embarrassed blush on his face. “There. The mess is all contained for now.”

Hamish nodded and shuffled back into the compartment. “Thanks,” said Mia. Hamish turned around and opened his mouth to utter a faint, “Thank you” as well.

The prefect gave a bored shrug. “First years,” she sighed, and walked away.

“So what was that all about?” Mia asked. She was staring rather intently at Hamish, who blushed harder under the gaze. Trying to ignore her staring, Hamish sat back down on his original seat under the lamp.

Hamish fidgeted and looked out the window at the rapid movements of the countryside. “I don’t know?” he said. Mia shrugged and sat back down next to the pile of butterflies. “Um, you are okay right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. Mia picked up the book and began to read again. She looked up at him. “I didn’t catch your last name by the way. Mia Donovan.”

Goosebumps popped up on the back of Hamish’s neck. He took a deep breath. Donovan was a common name. That didn’t mean anything. He forced himself to smile. “I’m Hamish Holmes-Watson?” he said. He watched as her eyebrows lifted and her jaw dropped in shock.

“You’re the Freak’s kid. My mum’s told me about you.” Mia closed her jaw with a click and straightened her back. “How’d you do it?” She pushed her lips together sternly and lifted her chin.

Hamish blinked in confusion. “I didn’t do anything!” he protested. Mia glared at him.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t know,” she said. “I’ll figure it out anyway.” She opened the book in her lap and began to engross herself in the reading again.

Hamish sighed and looked down at his lap. So much for this friend. He looked out the window. Maybe he’d find one when they arrived at the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to UrbanHymnal and Provocatrixx from #innercircle for the explosion and the light.  
> So what did you think? I love comments. They make me get up and dance around the room.


	5. Sorted and Settled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamish gets sorted and discovers the common room.
> 
> _“First years!” A firm voice cut through the nervous chatter of the new students and they all straightened up to attention. “Gather over here, please.” A plump, smiling, white woman with a plant on her hat, the same one who had led them on the boats, waved and pointed to an area by the front of the Hall. Hamish and Mia huddled together with the rest of the students as they watched everyone else settle down at the tables._  
> ...  
>  _The female prefect (the same one from the train, Hamish realized with a jolt) smiled at them. “Come on, this way,” she said, and began walking out of the Great Hall. “If I remember anything correctly, you’ll be pretty tired right now, and I’d rather not have one of you lot setting off the trap by accident.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for updates on here. I usually end up editing between the time I post stuff on tumblr and the stuff I post on here... and the procrastination bug struck. I'm still surprised at this chapter's wordcount.

On the platform, a loud firm voice called, “First Years! This way please!” Hamish flinched as the older students pushed around him, bumping into him with their bags and elbows. A few stopped to say, “Sorry, mate.” and a few giggled about how adorable first years were. Hamish trailed after the flocking first years and climbed into a set of boats that floated across a lake with water darker than the sky. The lamps that hung from fronts of the boats emitted a white-yellow glow, barely enough for Hamish to see a classical Scottish stone castle, with black flying horses pulling carriages through the sky.

Hamish blinked as swiveled his head around, trying to scan and store the scenery, while they were hustled inside Hogwarts, down a corridor, and into the Great Hall. Several first years gasped at the sight of the stone cavern yawning before them, as everyone else settled into long tables, still managing to fill the hall with the noise of idle chit chat.

Hamish’s eyes darted up to the swirling ceiling painted with stars, then around the rest of the room, trying to calculate how the floating candles that lit the room in a soft yellow glow managed to stay hovering in the air.

“First years!” A firm voice cut through the nervous chatter of the new students and they all straightened up to attention. “Gather over here, please.” A plump smiling white woman with a plant on her hat, the same one who had led them on the boats, waved and pointed to an area by the front of the Hall. Hamish and Mia huddled together with the rest of the students as they watched everyone else settle down at the tables.

One of the tables under the blue banner gave a bang and a purple puff of smoke erupted. Several students shrieked, and one male student found himself sporting a pair of bunny ears.

An old woman wearing spectacles stood up from the center chair of the head table. She carried herself as proudly as a queen, and was dressed in a green evening gown. Frown lines threatened to etch themselves into her pale face. “Now now, is that any way to behave?” she asked them. Her voice echoed through the hall, and Hamish tried to push aside some of the other first years to get a better view of what was going on. The amused laughing died down and the students turned their heads to look at the old woman.

“It is, after all, only five minutes into the new term and I find it necessary to remind students that they should not be attempting to jinx each other in the dining hall. Please behave yourself and do not require that I should ask this of you again.” She coughed and stared pointedly at the tables under the blue banner.

“We shall start with the Sorting of First Years. Our Sorting Hat, thankfully, was able to be repaired,” she continued. Hamish heard some students chuckling in the background. “If you would please, Professor Sprout.”

The plant-hat-wearing woman strode forward, balancing a tatty and limp brown hat, with a rip at the base. Several patches were apparent on the hat, as well as scorch and burn marks. Professor Sprout placed the stool down and stepped back. Hamish watched in amazement as the hat itself straightened up, the rip widening into a mouth, and began to bellow out song.

“We are done with the fighting  
The war is now at end  
Though we can claim victory  
We’ve paid the price with friends

Yet still Hogwarts remains  
Four Houses, proudly apart  
We cannot triumph again  
if we continue dividing our art

Once a year I sing  
Of Houses, one and all  
Hear me when I warn you  
To avoid a second fall

Bring our students together  
Let us celebrate, not divide!  
Each House shall help its students  
To each their own with pride

Thank Hufflepuff, the badger!  
No one else is more diligent or loyal  
To Gryffindor, great lions  
Calm before righteous anger boils

Poor Slytherins, the snakes  
Those of cunning ambition  
Be not enemies of Ravenclaw  
armed with intelligence and intuition

Uniting these traits is what we need  
For Hogwarts to repair what is lost  
Teach these students friendship as well  
Or our school will crumble into frost.”

The hat ceased singing and tipped its upper part over in a bow. Polite clapping noises filled the hall as the current students applauded. “And now the Sorting shall begin!” the Sorting Hat said.

Professor Sprout (the woman in the plant hat) stepped forward with a large list. “Abernathy, Jennifer,” she announced.

A scared looking girl with mussed brown hair pushed her way out of the crowd, and climbed on the stool. Professor Sprout settled the hat onto Jennifer’s head. A few moments passed before the Sorting Hat roared out, “GRYFFINDOR.”

All the students began to clap, the tables under the red lion banner cheering loudest. Hamish watched Jennifer hurry down to the tables and sit among the other Gryffindors, who patted her on the back and smiled.

Professor Sprout called each subsequent name with a firm tone, and if the first year was a little wobbly kneed, she added a smile and a helping hand onto the stool. Mia was the twelfth name called. The Sorting Hat hesitated for a few moments before calling out “SLYTHERIN.”

There was discernible pause before the Slytherin table joined in with the rest of the hall in clapping to welcome Mia to their house. As Mia made her way down from the front of the hall, Hamish could see fewer hands reaching out to her to pat Mia on the back. She had to tap someone to get room at the table, instead of her tablemates automatically moving aside to make space. Hamish wanted to wave to her, attempt to be friendly even if they couldn’t be friends, but Professor Sprout was already calling the next name. Mia looked away from the crowd of first years to stare at the banner above her head.

Hamish waited as the names were called one by one. He didn’t twitch his fingers or tap his toes, but counted his inhalations and exhalations as he waited to be called forward and placed on the stool.

“Watson-Holmes, Hamish!”

He skirted around the handful of students still waiting to be called, and climbed on top the stool. He smiled at Professor Sprout, who smiled back before placing the Sorting Hat on his head.

Ooh, this is an easy one, said the Sorting hat. Your desperation is quite amusing.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the Sorting Hat roared out.

The packed tabled under the yellow banner burst into loud clapping and from somewhere inside the crowd of students someone set off a small yellow and black confetti cannon. Hamish grinned in relief as he walked to join the packed table. An older boy with curly black hair grinned at Hamish and slid aside to make room for him on the bench.

“Always room for one more, eh?” he whispered in Hamish’s ear. “Welcome to Hufflepuff House.”

Hamish turned his attention back to the Head Table and waited as the last few names were read off and first years sorted into their Houses. Professor Spout rolled up the list and walked out of the room with the stool and hat. The old spectacled woman raised her arms and the tables fell silent.

“In keeping with tradition, the speeches shall be given after dinner. Welcome back, current students, and to our new first years, welcome to Hogwarts!” She clapped her hands and the previously empty plates filled up with heaps of food. The boy sitting next to Hamish nudged him as Hamish gaped at the food.

“Eat up,” he said, grinning. “It’s not going to run away.”

Hamish reached out and piled food on his plate, smiling back at the boy sitting next to him. “Really?” he asked. He tried not to slurp the soup as he spooned it into his mouth, taste buds firing at the strong and hearty flavor.

The older boy shrugged. “People don’t bother hexing the food,” he stated. “Everyone would get cranky enough to jinx them into next Tuesday.”

Hamish stared wide-eyed at the boy, uncertain if he was making a joke or not. The boy shrugged again, and turned back to shoving food into his mouth while making rude hand gestures at someone farther down the table. Hamish thought about introducing himself, but the rumbling noises in his stomach required more soup to get it to shut up. 

As he ate, Hamish listened to the threads of conversation, laughing at the funny bits or blinking in surprise at anecdotes from previous years or the past summer. The most popular topic was about someone named Harry Potter and something about a You-Know-Who. The names are passed around in awed whispers, and Hamish couldn’t help feeling left out of the conversation. He couldn’t remember reading anything about a Harry Potter while skimming through the textbooks during the summer, and none of the other first years are brave or inquisitive enough to ask.

Eventually, the students slowed their frantic chewing and the loud catching up gossip lowered to a dull mutter of compliments for the food. The spectacled woman at the Head Table stood up again, and the student body silenced. She smiled, eyes amused, and opened her mouth to speak.

“Hopefully no one will fall asleep, as I’m not going to be making this speech again,” she said.

“I am the Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, and on behalf of all the teaching staff here, we bid you welcome. To returning students, we are glad you’re back. I trust your summer has not been so eventful that you are no longer prepared to learn. To new students, welcome home. Hogwarts might seem intimidating at first, but rest assured the school will grow on you. It is our hope you will make many friends that will be kept for years to come.

Many sections of the school have been damaged in the fighting against You-Know-Who, as most of you know. Repairs will be taking place throughout the school year, but in the meantime, there will be new routes installed. Please take care to arrive to your classes on time.

As a repeated reminder, the forest on the ground is out of bounds. Many dangerous magical creatures live there, and if you venture out, we cannot guarantee your safety.

The castle caretaker, Mr. Filch, has requested that I remind you that magic should not be performed in the corridor between classes. The full list of banned, forbidden, and otherwise non-permitted items or actions can be found on a list on Mr. Filch’s office door.”

She took a deep breath and continued, “I do realize that in light of recent events, rebelling against castle rules have been glorified and the troublemakers heroicized by the student body, but times have changed. Troublemakers seeking fame or attention from other students will not be tolerated. Hogwarts is a school, first and foremost, and we can only provide you with a quality education if you are not busy making mischief.

If you are interested in trying out for the Quidditch team, please leave your name with your Head of House. First years are reminded that they are not allowed to enter the tryouts.

We have two new staff joining us: Professor Bridge and Professor Grimmett. They will be teaching Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, respectively.” A middle-aged brown man, wearing a top hat waved cheerfully at the students. The gray-haired, surprisingly youthful-faced witch sitting next to him nudged him with her elbow, and he stopped. “Please remember to give them your respect and attention, just like you would with any other professor.”

Headmistress McGonagall tucked her hands into her sleeves. “Don’t stay up late. Classes start early tomorrow. Goodnight!”

She departed from the head table and the silence cracked open, filling the Great Hall with excited chattering. All around Hamish, students flowed toward and out the doors, obviously headed out the dormitories.

“First years! Over here! First years!” Hamish turned his head, searching for the source of the yelling, and spots an older boy and girl standing next to each other at the end of the table. They were waving their arms and judging by the shiny P badges on their robes, they were the House Prefects. Hamish pushed his way through the sea of students to join the huddling crowd of new Hufflepuffs.

The female prefect (the same one from the train, Hamish realized with a jolt) smiled at them. “Come on, this way,” she said, and began walking out of the Great Hall. “If I remember anything correctly, you’ll be pretty tired right now, and I’d rather not have one of you lot setting off the trap by accident.”

“There are traps?” Another first year piped up. “Me Da never mentioned anything about traps.”

“Nothing dangerous,” the female prefect said. They trooped through the Main Hall and headed down a flight of stairs. “Just a smelly and wet bath if you’re stupid enough.” They swept past a set of paintings of fruit bowls that smelled horribly delicious and arrived at a stack of barrels.

The male prefect pointed at the stack. “Two from the bottom, middle of the second row,” he informed them. “Tap the wrong one and you’ll get doused.” He gazed at them, eyes earnest. “Understood?”

“Understoo-od,” chimed the first years. Someone yawned.

“Helga Hufflepuff,” the female prefect muttered as she tapped the appropriate barrel. Hamish’s jaw dropped as the lid of the barrel swung open and expanded, revealing a tunnel. 

“Woah,” he breathed. Hamish joined the line of first years, crawling through the tunnel to reach the common room on the other side. 

In the common room, warmth and coziness seeped from every corner, from the bright fire burning in the grate, to the plump yellow-and-black armchairs scattered around the room. The lush plants placed all around room waved their leaves from side to side, forming an odd blot of green among the stripes of yellow and black from the banners hanging on the wall. Surrounding the common room were circular doors, painted with a homely shade of brown.

The male prefect pointed at the left side tunnel. “Boy dorms are that way,” he told them. “Names are listed on the doors.” On the other side of the room the female prefect was talking to the girls, pointing her arms at the right side door. “Professor McGonagall is right. Classes will start early tomorrow morning.” He flapped his hands at the boys. “Go on.” He smiled at them.

Hamish followed the other boys into the tunnels. It took a few wrong turns before he found the correct dorm room, and he pushed open the door, smiling in relief. Two of his roommates had already gotten there ahead of him and were busy getting dressed for bed. The heavy weight of his eyelids persuaded Hamish to hold off introductions until the following morning, when perhaps they would all be more interested in actually holding a conversation. He dressed in his pyjamas and crawled into bed.

As Hamish drifted off to sleep, he wished he could hear the faint strains of violin music drifting up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos are always appreciated! Please, tell me what you think, even if it's simple as "yay you updated."  
> Professor Bridge and Professor Grimmet are OC's of mine for this fic, please don't steal them. (Or ship them but it's not like I can stop you.)  
> And I apologize for the truly terrible Sorting Hat song.


End file.
